When I Came Home
by Caribbean1989
Summary: 'There, in the hallway, stood Sherlock. He looked just like before. Maybe a little thinner, but otherwise unchanged. He even wore the same long coat and dark-blue scarf'. Sherlock returns after three years. How does John cope with seeing his best friend again? Short one-shot. Please R and R.


John awoke in the middle of the night. He stared up at the ceiling for a few minutes. Yesterday had been the strangest, most emotional and most confusing day of his life. After nearly three years his best friend had come back to him. His best friend whom he had watched jump off a building and presumed dead. His best friend Sherlock.  
John could still not quite believe it had actually happened, that Sherlock had returned and was alive and well. Hadn't it all been a dream?  
He sighed deeply and picked up his phone from the nightstand. It told him it was just after 3 a.m. Lovely, the middle of the night and he was wide awake.

John thought back to the previous day.  
It had been late in the afternoon when he was alarmed by a series of screams from Mrs. Hudson. He rushed downstairs, fearing something to be terribly wrong with the elderly lady. Instead, when he reached the bottom of the stairs, he nearly fell down himself.  
There, in the hallway, stood Sherlock. He looked just like before. Maybe a little thinner, but otherwise unchanged. He even wore the same long coat and dark-blue scarf.  
It appeared Sherlock had knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door and had scared the living daylights out of her. She was leaning against the wall of her apartment, sobbing audibly into a dish cloth.

"Sh- Sherlock…?" John stammered out. He felt his knees buckle and quickly sat down on the bottom step of the stairs, to prevent himself from really falling over.  
"Hello, John" Sherlock said calmly. His voice was just as John remembered. "Oh my God…" he whispered to himself, "how? How is this possible? I saw you. You were dead. I buried you...I stood at your grave…". His voice cracked and he stopped talking. Sherlock simply stared at him without saying a word.

John buried his face in his hands. Emotions were coursing through him at high speed. He was so happy to see his best friend. Even after three years he still missed him every day. Simple items or phrases could still remind him of Sherlock or of events they had been through together.  
John too felt curiosity. He had watched Sherlock jump off the building, had felt his limp wrist, seen his lifeless body. How than was it possible that he was standing here very much alive? But mostly now, John felt anger. Sherlock had hurt him deeply, sent him into a depression that had lasted for over a year and a half. He undoubtedly had had his reasons for his fake death, but that did not matter to John now. Sherlock probably did not even realize how much pain John had endured because of it and that was what made him so angry. He could have at least told John what he had been planning to do!

It took John about fifteen minutes to overcome the initial shock. Mrs Hudson was still crying silently, not able to move or utter a single word. Sherlock stood unmoving in the middle of the hallway, clearly not knowing how to handle this situation.  
Finally, when he felt he could somewhat walk again, John stood up and stomped up the stairs to their apartment.  
"John?" Sherlock called hesitantly after him, but John ignored him. He needed some time to arrange his thoughts. Alone.

He threw open the door to the living room and stumbled inside. The world was spinning, everything ultimately threatened to overwhelm him. He came to a stand-still in the middle of the room, holding on to the sofa for support. His mind was racing with all sorts of thoughts. He had started to hyperventilate, which wasn't helping much when the world was already spinning. Finally, not able to keep it together any longer, he felt himself falling to the ground and knew he was fainting.

* * *

When John regained consciousness he realized he was no longer on the floor. He now lay on the sofa with a blanket draped over him. When he opened his eyes he noticed the lights had been turned on in the living room and he was fairly certain he had not done that. Outside evening had fallen and the sky had grown dark.

John sat upright, massaging his temples. It had been a long time since he had last fainted. From the looks of it he had been unconscious for over an hour.  
He sat on the edge of the sofa for a while and was beginning to feel a little bit better, but still very groggy and numb.  
When he was sure the world was no longer spinning, John carefully stood up. A sip of water would do him good.

Still slightly dazed, he shuffled over to the kitchen. A little to his surprise he found Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, reading in one of his books, like he had never left 221 B.  
This was awkward… What did you say to someone who had come back from a fake death? John did not know and was positive Sherlock would not start up the conversation out of his own.  
Actually, John did not feel like talking to Sherlock at all, so he decided to ignore him. He was still very angry with the consulting detective.

John walked further into the kitchen more briskly than he felt.  
Sherlock looked up at John as he entered. John seemed to ignore him as he rummaged in one of the kitchen cupboards, tapped some water and drank. He did not speak to Sherlock. He did not even acknowledge the fact that Sherlock sat only a few feet away from him.  
"John" Sherlock tried in the end, knowing they would have to start talking sometime. John did not respond in any way. "John" Sherlock tried again, "I owe you an expl…"  
"Did you move me to the sofa?" John cut across him, back still turned to Sherlock. Seemingly for the first time in his life, Sherlock was taken aback. "Yes" he answered after a while of silence. "And the blanket?" John resumed, voice icy. "Didn't want you to be cold" Sherlock answered softly.  
John put the empty glass in the sink with a clatter. "Thank you" he said sternly, "I'm off to bed". And without another word, or even as much as a glance at Sherlock, John left for his bedroom.

Sherlock was left behind in the kitchen. He had always known that John would not take this entire matter lightly. He had expected him to be angry and he knew John had every right to be angry, but now that he was actually faced with it Sherlock found it difficult to deal with. He sighed deeply and continued reading in his book. For the time being he decided to leave John alone…

* * *

So now John lay awake in the middle of the night, not able to sleep again any time soon. The thoughts of Sherlock had left him wide awake. Still the fear kept nagging him that Sherlock's return had all been a dream. That his mind was playing tricks on him, making him believe in what was actually a figment of his imagination. It was all just too good to be true.

John stood up from his bed and put on his robe. He was thirsty. Usually he kept a glass of water beside his bed, but last night he had stormed off so briskly that he had forgotten all about that.  
He did not need to switch on any lights in the apartment, he could blindly find his way around it.

As John walked into the kitchen he noticed Sherlock's still open book lying on the table. He stared at it for what felt like hours, not able to tear his gaze away from. Seeing that book was a confrontation with the fact that it hadn't all been a dream. Sherlock was really there with him, sleeping in the other bedroom.

John silently retreated back to the hallway, desiring some final confirmation. His eyes were fixed on the last door on the left-hand side. Sherlock's bedroom.  
He crept closer to it, seeing the door was opened a crack. Careful not to make any sound, John pushed the door open further and peered inside.  
There Sherlock was: lying on his front in his bed, vast asleep. A strange sight on itself, for the consulting detective could go days with very little sleep if he got himself worked up over a case. John hadn't forgotten that and knew that probably would not have changed either.

Sherlock's face was turned towards John. His usual neat, dark curls now messed up, strands of hair sticking out in every direction. His face looked completely relaxed, his genius mind having a time-out for once. He looked so innocent when he was asleep.

Seeing his peacefully sleeping friend, it suddenly hit John that it was all true. Sherlock would really be by his side again. It was like it had been a mist before and now he could see clear again.  
John felt all the anger inside him wash away. It was replaced by relief and a feeling of utter gratitude and happiness.  
He allowed himself to sink down to the ground, leaning his back to the doorpost. He felt hot tears roll down his cheeks, but they were happy tears. Everything he had prayed for in the past three years, but had deemed impossible, was really happening now. Sherlock was there, he had come back.

John tried to silence a sob, but failed at it. The sound was loud in the otherwise quiet room.  
Sherlock stirred in his sleep and raised his head slightly from his pillow. "John?" he mumbled sleepily, opening his eyes a crack.  
"Yes, Sherlock" John answered softly in a choked voice, "I'm here". Sherlock laid his head back down and shifted lightly. "Good" he mumbled before falling right back to sleep.

John did not move and just resumed watching his sleeping friend. "I'll always be here, Sherlock" he whispered to himself, "I'll always be here, right next to you".

* * *

**Thanks very much for reading.  
This was my first Sherlock-fic, so I am very interested to know your opinions :-)**


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